The Democratic press. [volume] (Ravenna, O. [Ohio]) 1868-1901, 1887-10-13
. WON AT LAST.
.sCrYstabel! CrYstabel!n

ON hl
"Crystabel! Crystabelr'
1t was a mans voice that uttered the
name, and it was filled with pleading,
passionate intensity. He drew lit
tie nearer as he spoke, and looked as
though that utterance of her name was
but the prefix to an eloquent pleading.
But she interrupted him saying:
'.Mr. Chaloner, you forget your
self"
II only wish 1 could" he answered
huskily, ''if, in forgetting myself, 1
could forget you. Crystabel! Crysta-
bel! do not turn from me! Be my
wife! Try to love me! Oh, child"
.'Mr. Chaloner." interrupted Crys-
label haughtily, ''this is worse than
useless. Say no more. | will not lis
ten. And be so kind as to let me pass.
l would return to the ballroom"
For Il moment Il struggle took place
within him. He stood in her way, and
as he looked at her, so exquisitely
beautiful, with the pale light quiver-
ing over her delicate lace draperies
sprinkled with pearls, he thought
should he let her go, or tell her why
he had spoken-what was the great
blow that had broken down the bar
rier of his long silence?
.'Will you allow me to pass?" re-
peated Crystabel, an cry flame
coloring her delicate cheek and
sparkling in her lovely eyes. This
is, to say the least. ngentlenanly."
Wait" he said ''huskily, Just u
moment, and for Gods sake listen to
me, child! would never have spoken
to you of this. My love should have
died as it has lived-in silence. But l
I would save you'll"
''Save mel" She threw her head
back in defiance. and her suddenly
clenching hand snapped the frail ivory
sticks of her fan. 81 will not ask you
what you mean. Twill not even try
to conjecture. You deal in enigmas
and insults. Let me pass!'
As if she had struck him he stepped
aside, but even in the blazing heat of
her anger she saw and always remem-
bered the agonlzed pain and pallor o1
his face.
The next moment she was gone.
and he sank down on seat under the
dew-ladened vines with bitter gruan.
Lost! lost! my one love! And how
will she bear the blow that is to come?
How can she-reared in the rose-leaf
lap of luxury and delicate as snow
f1ake-battle with poverty and the
worldP 1t will kill her-kill her! And
l, who would lay down my life for her,
must see it all and be unable to help%
Three hours after Crystabel swept
away from her lover in naughty in
sulting anger, she knew what he had
meant when he said that he would
save her. All that he had known must
happen, she now knew had happened.
Summoned from the ball in cruel
unwarned haste, she now stood in her
laces, jewels, flowers, and beauty, in
the midst of ruin, disgrace, and
death.
Her father lay dead by his own
hand in one room, her mother in terri
fed convulsions IN another, and the
house-her beautiful, luxurious home
was filed with officers and men.
And she-she, the dainty belle, the
sensitive hothouse plant, the frail deli
cate girl, who had known naught but
sunshine, luxury. and laughter from
the hour of her birth-what did she
dop
With vivid clearness as stinging
as death, she heard them tell how it
was-tlre old story of temptation and
fall, and death as the only alternative
to lifelong disgrace.
And then her stunned heart and
brain turned from the dead to the liv-
ing, and her only words were:
''Let me go to my mother"
Almost Immediately after she left
the ballroom. Gilbert Chaloner heard
of it, and heard the idle wonderings
of the gay ones at her sudden sum-
mons.
s.Merciful heavens!" he muttered.
"Can it have come so soon, and she
gone alone to face itp The blow will
kill her!"
And with all haste he followed and
reached her home, only to find that the
blow had been worse than he dreamed,
that the guilty husband and father
was dead.
'.Where is she-Miss CarlisleP" he
stammered to one of the terrified
speechless servants who flocked in the
hall.
There, sir, with mistress, was his
answer, as the man pointed to the
door.
And there he went, to be struck
motionless with surprise on the thresh-
old. What he had expected to see
was Crystabel in Mysteries of terror
and grief, watched and tended by the
devoted heart-broken mother. What
he saw was Crystabel on her knees by
a low couch, her face white, still, and
fearless, her eyes on her mothers in
sensible face, her own hands eagerly
chatting those cold lifeless ones. Tue
creamy-hearted pearls still glowed i'll
her sunny hair and clasped her white
throat.
In all her exquisite laces she knelt
there like an angel, and forgot her
own grief in trying to comfort her
mother.
She did not see him, and it was
several moments before he could suffi-
ciently recover himself to advance and
speak to her.
'Can I. do anythingP"
J She had started Q little and lifted